Tracking down the fool...
by NeonGensis
Summary: Based on the roleplaying game, Vampire:The Masquerade, this follows the brief story of a certain vampire hunter, searching for the elusive and mad Malkavian, Anatole.


Terrence Quinn was a vampire hunter. A damn good one, he knew too, considering the manner of devilish beasts he had confronted. Undead humans, bloodsucking monsters, manipulators at the highest levels of government and industry, walking nightmares. Bela Lugosi knew what he was at, he thought gingerly. Removing a sewer cap, he was taken aback by the noxious fumes, but climbed in and returned the cover over his head, sealing him in darkness.  
  
  
Finally, I'm going to get another of those mothers, he thought, a wry grin forming on his face. He'd spent 26 years chasing vampires, which was a lifetime in a field that allowed no mistakes, that killed off those too foolish and too unwary. Tonight he was going to add another Malkavian, his twelfth vampire in general, to his list of kills.   
  
  
Malkavians were a dangerous bunchm even among the other vampire clans. There was little in common between one Malkavian and the next, and they were disorderly and disparate as a clan, save the underlying fact that they were completely insane to the man. Pften spewing madness from their lips, they did however have rare moments of near-divine, Euclidean wisdom and vision. It made little difference to Terrence Quinn; prey was prey, after all.  
  
  
Splashing down into the actual sewers, he flicked on his helmet-mounted flashlight and consulted his PDA. Stored in the mini-database, besides years of accumulated vampiric lore and fact, was his target's haven. Provided by an unknown informant over shreckNET, the map on the PDA was a sallow-green map-grid. There were dozens, if not hundreds of other vampire hunters like himself, many all too willing to divulge their secrets to another as a professional courtesy. This Malkavian was as good as dead, this time.  
  
  
Left. Right. Straight for 100 meters. Left. Left again. Right. As Terrence traversed deeper into the labyrinthe-like sewers beneath Queens, NY, a frown slowly crept on his face and his hand strayed to his utility vest's left breast pocket. Patting the pocket, he felt the folded-up printout from his account at shreckNET. An odd email, but it came from the strange informant known only by the handle "bROKENmIRROR" :  
  
  
  
I know you, but you don't know me. A Malkavian who had once eluded you lies dormant under Astoria's streets. In exchange for my information, Terrence Quinn, kill he who is known as Anatole, our common foe.  
  
That was all, besides tome after tome of attached digitized information on the vamp Anatole. A most vexing letter, true, but he was not about to be taken advanta-- With a wordless snarl, he spun on the balls of his booted feet to the right, knife and crossbow with stake already drawn. He heard something-- he was sure of it!-- but in such an enclosed area, sounds reverberated and distorted easily.  
  
  
He threw a tin can into the shadows, but only echoes came back to his ears.  
  
  
He never had a chance.   
  
  
Rising out of the shadows in front of Terrence, Anatole came with fangs at the ready and slick with saliva. His arm a blur, he easily knocked the crossbow out of Terrence's hand, and stepped deftly as the vampire hunter fired three rounds at the spot he had just been standing. With a quick slash of claw-like nails followeed by an uppercut, Anatole swiped the automatic pistol from his still-surprised adversary's grip.  
  
  
"Yoink," he said with a toothy grin, then fired four more rounds into the hunter's shoulders and kneecaps. As Terrence fell with a strangled scream of pain, Anatole turned the pistol away and emptied the cartrifge into the inky blackness, then slipped the smoking gun into the recesses of his gray trenchcoat. "Nasty toy to have." A maniacal look twisted his face as he brushed away blonde strands from his face.  
  
  
"So how was your hunt, hmm?" Anatole crouched beside Terrence who writhed and cursed under his panting breath. Salty crimson vitae oozed through his clothes and groping hands, and mingled with the collected rainwater and sewage dregs. "Hunting wabbits? Yessss?"  
  
  
Terrence spat his disgust into Anatole's unflinching pale face.  
  
  
"You vampire hunters, killers of my kindred," Anatole began, "are a nuisance. But for one with so much time on his hands.... Well...." He spread his hands wide and shrugged. "Let's just say undead life comes at the cost of much boredom."  
  
  
Lamely, Terrence Quinn dragged himself away on his elbows, his ruined legs streaking a trail of blood behind. He had to get away-- he must! What a sad turn of events this had become! Even in the back of his panicking mind, his wits were collecting themselves. How could he have known he was coming? How?!  
  
  
Slowly, terror and realization mingled on his face, contorted with panic and rage and pain.  
  
  
"You were easy to draw in," Anatole confirmed for him, swaggering almost nonchalantly with the stake in his hands. "The promise of a great kill must have overpowered even your senses to be lured, like a child to the prospect of candy." With barely a grunt, he raised the thick splinter of wood and brought it down mightily. There was the sickening crunch of mangled bones, as the stake was rammed through both ankles at once. "How could you miss such a plain ambush? You were literally given all you needed to know, but did that not raise your suspicions?"  
  
  
Terrence clenched his teeth as he fought the pain and the darkness creeping from the corners of his eyes. With all the blood loss, he was sure to pass out soon. No....  
  
"You were a fool then," said Anatole through the darkness that devoured Terrence now. His voice was drawing nearer, and it seemed to come from right behind him. "And all fools must pay for their folly."  
  
And suddenly all became dark although the pain did not end for a long, long time.... 


End file.
